A Portrait of the Wizard as a Young Man
by Iphigenia
Summary: Prequel to Roman Holiday. Death Eater spy Oliver Wood is slowly losing his soul. What will be the straw that breaks the camel's back? OW/PW slash.
1. Waking From the Dream

Title: Waking From the Dream

Author: Iphigenia

Email: SharLee224@aol.com

Pairings: Oliver/Percy, 

Spoilers: the first four books, "Roman Holiday" (my fic)

Rating: PG-13 for violence

Improv #2: sleep-soft- cuddle- courage (also my answer to the snow day challenge on POWSN)

Status: Complete

Sequel Info: Incomplete series (as yet unnamed)

Category: Action-Adventure/ Angst

Summary: Death Eater Oliver Wood leads a deadly attack on Hogwarts- and encounters a very special someone.

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Note: Functions as a prequel to "Roman Holiday." Not in the same universe as "Blame It on the Game." Thanks to my beta, Elske. Sorry about the copious amounts of headers, but it seems every list or archive wants more and more information. My solution is to throw every requested category at the top of my stories. Better more than less, I suppose.

Three people- two wizards and one witch- strolled rapidly across the melting Hogwarts snow. The witch, Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, wore a grim expression as she saw the Ministry official off. With Albus Dumbledore's assassination at the start of the war, it had fallen upon her to continue Dumbledore's ambitious political agenda, as well as the operation of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Of the two wizards, Severus Snape was in more danger, yet he was strangely calm, as if he had made peace with himself. Despite the fact that his cover had been blown, he obstinately continued to teach potions and terrorize children at Hogwarts. Betraying no outer sign of nervousness, he seemed almost happy as he shook the Ministry official's hand and turned, with the Headmistress, to return inside the castle for supper.

The younger wizard, a tall man with bright red hair, sported distinctive burgundy robes with sparkling gold trim- instantly identifiable as Ministry robes- and a shiny silver courier's bracelet attached to an unassuming battered brown briefcase. This case, secured with the very latest in locking charm technology, held classified security briefing papers. Percy Weasley (at twenty-six, the youngest Deputy Director of Intelligence in sixty years) had just come from a routine intelligence briefing for the Hogwarts staff. The bracelet, naturally, was a routine security precaution. Leaving the Headmistress and Deputy Headmaster, he stopped at a large black monolith rising above the white snow. Carved in broad Gothic script at the base of the monument were three simple words: "For the Fallen." Although theoretically this referred to the casualties of the current war, it had also come to stand (underground, at least) for friends and family fallen from grace, the estimated one-third of the wizarding population who supported the Dark Lord. Shedding a single tear, Percy fell to his knees in the soft snow. From his robes, he produced a single red rose that was charmed with a brilliant golden glow; he caressed its soft petals briefly, then laid it at the base of the monument.

Half a kilometer to the west, a young Death Eater marksman watched this touching scene through the crosshairs of his scope. Slowly and deliberately, he aimed his magically enhanced sniper rifle at Percy, contemplating his next action. When he fired his rubber stun bullet (dipped in aerodynamic sleeping potion for greater accuracy and effect), his commando team would fly in- the sun to their backs- and bring terror to Hogwarts and the sleepy town of Hogsmeade. Although it was supposed to be only a minor attack, it would test for the first time since Dumbledore's death the integrity of Hogwarts' defenses and the Auror response time. If the risky hit-and-run was successful, he would be responsible for the deaths of dozens- possibly hundreds- of innocents, not to mention condemning his former potions professor to a slow and agonizing death. However, his position within the Death Eaters would be secure, and no one, not even the head of the Death Eater Intelligence- the famously suspicious Draco Malfoy- would question his cover. If the attack failed, he himself had an exit, but his young team of operatives, all fellow Hogwarts graduates under thirty years of age, would be condemned to capture, interrogation, torture, and death. While he had no specific emotional attachment to his team, Draco's brilliant training program ensured that team leaders would think twice before sending their operatives into the field (thus saving the Death Eaters valuable man power). He had selected them, trained them, and now was perhaps sending them to certain deaths. Steadying his aim, Oliver Wood, also aged twenty-six, prepared to shoot his childhood lover. "Stupefy."

The bullet ripped cleanly into his subject's left thigh. Percy's pale body crumpled gracefully to the ground, sprawling obscenely across the untouched snow. Silently and terrifyingly, a flock of Death Eaters emerged from the horizon, clad in black from head-to-toe, shadowy angels of death. Landing swiftly on the roof of the castle, they entered unnoticed.

Pulling his black ski mask over his face, Oliver- the Delta team leader- climbed out of his hide, leapt onto his combat broom, and sped to Percy's prone body, isolated from the rest of the battle. Taking out a small leather case of muggle lock picks out of his pack, Oliver quickly went to work on Percy's courier bracelet, which he knew to be charmed to resist all but the most powerful unlocking spells. Hearing a footstep behind him, Oliver twirled, his wand ready to fire.

"Oliver, it's me, Ginny," the curvy female figure said, taking a step back, her long red hair just barely peeking out from beneath her knit cap.

"Virginia," he said, purposely addressing her by her given name, which she despised. "What is Omega team doing here? They weren't assigned for this mission."

Ginny Weasley, aged twenty, shrugged casually, giving no sign of recognizing Percy. "Draco got a look at your mission profile and decided that it had a lot more potential. It's good experience, too. Unlike Delta team, half of Omega operatives have no field experience," she said, taking up a defensive position behind Oliver.

He gritted his teeth, frustrated again by Draco's tactical genius. Oliver had intentionally undermanned the attack in order to minimize damage to Hogwarts. The staff would be even less prepared for an attack of this scale. He tried vainly to concentrate on picking the intricate, triple tumbler lock (it did help, however, that Harry Potter had shown him how to do it). Still, Ginny's unwelcome presence grated on his nerves. Harry had mentioned the possibility of turning her, but Oliver was certain that Ginny truly did believe in the cause, disillusioned with the poverty of her childhood. She had, in fact, done extraordinarily well, rising quickly through the rigorous training to become the youngest and most ruthless team leader ever. Oliver suppressed a shudder as he felt her cold, calculating eyes watching his every move. "And how, pray, are the teams performing?" he asked, not daring to look up.

She consulted a piece of charmed parchment that doubled as the on-site operations board. "Both teams are progressing ahead of schedule. It seems your hypothesis was correct. Hogwarts is sadly vulnerable to attack. For far too many years has the school been reliant upon Dumbledore's powers alone. They've been caught sleeping, and now they will pay for their fallacy. Perhaps we should simply blow the place?" she suggested, her icy voice devoid of emotion.

He bit his lip as the pick slipped in the frigid cold and tore through his glove into his finger. Blood dripped onto Percy's limp wrist. "No," he said, shaking his head. "There may be supporters in there still, as well as many irreplaceable artifacts. Permission denied. Do try to be a bit quieter. I'm trying to work." Ginny bit her lip, angry at her abrupt dismissal, but obeyed.

Oliver sighed, turning his attentions back to the complicated lock. Finally, he had the relative peace and quiet he needed to work, albeit punctuated by occasional screams. Given the nature of the mission, one simply couldn't avoid those. With a grunt of triumph, he sprung the lock and stashed the case in his pack. Turning back towards Percy's stunned form, he placed a piece of parchment in Percy's pocket, then after a quick glance at Ginny to ensure that she was not looking, he planted a tender kiss on Percy's soft, cold lips.

Unfortunately, Ginny had terrible sense of timing and chose that moment to check back on Oliver's progress. "Ugh," she spat, looking at him disdainfully. "As if the twins weren't disgusting enough. Honestly, I don't know why Draco lets you hold such a high position. Stop cuddling my brother, you queer!" Ginny, of course, was rampantly heterosexual.

He turned slowly so as to not admit his guilt. "Oh, so you do remember your family, then? And you recognize your older brother as well? I thought you renounced them," he smirked, turning the tables on her. He wasn't concerned by her implicit threat to tell Draco- Draco already knew. In fact, Draco was gay as well. Ostracism by the operatives was unlikely as well, as many of them already knew. No one would fault him for stealing a kiss from a sexy guy like Percy, especially when said guy had been his lover at Hogwarts. Everyone made mistakes. No one had to know that Percy was not one of them.

Ginny (or at least the part of her face he could see) grew red, clearly furious that she had been tricked into acknowledging Percy. "In any event, the objective has been accomplished," she said, again consulting the parchment. "Professor- I mean Severus- Snape has been apprehended after a fierce struggle, and all Aurors have been neutralized. The professors are putting up the expected resistance, though. Shall we proceed?"

Oliver shook his head, his callused fingers absently stroking Percy's soft hair. So it was done. More innocent lives on his conscience. "No, Ginny," he said, looking towards the peaceful-looking castle. "Return to base. The objective was met. We are unequipped for a long, drawn-out battle."

No one would question his logic. As on-site commander, it was up to him to assess the situation. Despite the fact that the Auror response team seemed to be sleeping on the job, it was perfectly reasonable to opt for strategic retreat. Draco himself advocated safety over unnecessary bloodshed. It was perfectly sound logic, but, as a Death Eater, it was not the thing to do.

"Are you sure?" she asked, preparing to activate the Dark Mark. He nodded, ignoring her questioning glance. Enough damage had been done today. Glaring, she complied, sending a quick, sharp pain to the team's Marks. "See you at the base, then," she said, mounting her broom. And she was gone.

Oliver regarded Percy's sleeping form once more, focusing on the blood freezing rapidly onto Percy's wrist. The spilt blood, of course, broke tradecraft. Even the inefficient and overworked Ministry forensics department would be able to link him to the scene. Frowning, he whispered a cleaning spell over the body. It simply wouldn't do to have him identified, at least outright, as a Death Eater operative. There might be repercussions. Still, he felt Percy had to know. Thinking quickly, Oliver performed the leg-locker curse, then grabbed his broom sadly. "Enervate," he murmured, aiming his wand at the sleeping man. "Courage, Percy. I love you." 

Percy Weasley awoke to a soft, fleeting, hesitant kiss. Opening his eyes, he thought he saw Oliver Wood wave and fly away, smiling, another mysterious night wraith departing with the sun. Fumbling blindly for a few seconds, Percy found both his glasses and his wand in his inner robe pocket- along with a mysterious piece of parchment. Curious, he struggled to open the parchment. "Courage," he read, squinting to make out the familiar loopy handwriting. He looked up in astonishment. So it hadn't been a dream. It had really been him. Oliver Wood. Belatedly, he tried to stand and run in the direction of the vanishing figures; thanks to the curse, he fell flat on his face. It was too late. He knew he could not catch them. He could only watch helplessly as the sun dipped below the horizon and the world slept.


	2. La Sourire

Title: La Sourire

Author: Iphigenia

Email: SharLee224@aol.com

Pairings: Marcus/Oliver, Oliver/Percy, Oliver/Harry

Spoilers: the first four books

Rating: R for language, sexual content, and violence

Improv: #4 (late) smile- storm- niche- wistful and #5 quarrel- coarse - flavorful- music

Sequel Info: Part of an unfinished series, entitled, "A Portrait of the Wizard as a Young Man."

Summary: Oliver goes to a Death Eater party and loses another part of his soul. Will this be the straw that breaks the camel's back?

Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Note: Follows directly after "Waking From the Dream" but before "Roman Holiday." Not in the same universe as "Blame It on the Dance." Thanks to my beta, Elske.

Bright flashing lights and pounding, throbbing rock music cut harshly through the smoky haze of La Sourire, the innocuously named club hidden inside the Death Eater base. At the center of the hot, sweaty room, scantily clad twenty-something Death Eaters in leather, still pumped from the wildly successful Hogwarts attack, danced and gyrated suggestively on the crowded wooden dance floor, hiding the cheerily annoying bright yellow happy face painted obscenely in the center. Ironically, the night's hero- Oliver Wood, the battle-hardened killer who planned the mission- stood in a secluded niche hidden from view, coldly watching the unholy celebration of flesh, a wizarding version of the infamous Moulin Rouge in all of its glorious exultant debauchery with a hideous kinky BDSM twist. Someone, He took a morose swig of his ice-cold Heineken and used that someone- probably Draco- must own a lot of stock in dragonhide. Remembering his own reluctant participation in the trend- his roommate, the smolderingly sexy Roger Davies, had thoughtfully secured a pair for him- Oliver shifted uncomfortably in his tight, impractical dragonhide pants.

The thick, musky scent of Marcus Flint suddenly disrupted Oliver's quiet solitude, filling his acute senses with a growing feeling of dread. "Cheer up," Marcus said, slipping up noiselessly from behind Oliver, his posh, cultured accent ringing mockingly in the Scot's ears. Marcus' breath smelled of Smirnoff Ice, his preferred poison. The Beta team leader nuzzled Oliver's vulnerable neck aggressively, running his sharpened teeth harshly over Oliver's exposed jugular vein. "Draco wasn't at all upset that you failed to kill that redheaded Weasel. The more pompous, bumbling fools like that we have in the Ministry, the better. Having Percy Weasley in Intelligence is almost as good as having an agent in the same position," Marcus remarked, his large muscular arms snaking up warmly around his fellow operative. 

The cool touch of metal under his shirt caused Oliver to tense up. A knife- Marcus was in a violent mood- that meant Oliver would most likely spend the next exhausting his magical energy by day vainly healing his skin from the numerous cuts and slashes that would result. Forcing himself not to respond to the weapon, Oliver tried to distract the Death Eater. "Speaking of the Director," he asked casually, taking care to hold his body perfectly still, "where is the great Draco himself?" Oliver felt the knife's blunt edge slide slowly and dangerously across his chest. Then, in a sudden, quick motion, the knife ripped diagonally across his shirt, ripping it open. His ruined shirt slipped silently to the floor, leaving his torso bare and cold.

"I don't know," Marcus said, his coarse hands running possessively up and down Oliver's smooth chest. A sudden, piercing pain tore through Oliver's body as Marcus pinched his nipples and twisted them sharply. Oliver winced, then quickly schooled his face to its usual blank expression. Marcus knew about Percy, he realized, and this was his punishment- humiliation in front of the rest of the club, not that most of them were paying attention anyway. Some, he suspected, were even doing the exact same thing. The real punishment was in the damage this public submission would do to his authority. His eyes flickered madly about, settling on Ginny, who seemed to be rubbing an ice cube all over a happily bound Blaise Zambini. Feeling his wild, aroused gaze, she looked over at him, smiling cruelly in triumph. Ginny must have told Marcus about that one, irresponsible kiss he had given Percy. He had been stupid, stupid to let her see it.

"Fuck." A small sob escaped unwanted past Oliver's layered shields. Percy, he thought guiltily, groaning as Marcus continued to fondle him, his strong fingers leaving scarlet imprints across his chest. If only Percy could see him now, writhing in the painful yet pleasurable pain. Oliver Wood, Marcus Flint's masochistic bitch, squirming in wanton pleasure under his enemy's lustful eyes. Oliver flinched as he was abruptly spun up against the rough wall so that they were facing one another, then slapped, his cheek burning hot. Staggering brokenly against the cold wall, Oliver looked at Marcus defiantly, then impulsively turned the other cheek, daring him to do it again.

Marcus scowled at Oliver's uncharacteristic insubordination. "You kissed Percy," he spat, his simple words much more of an accusation than a question. "You still have feelings for that muggle-loving scumbag. Do you still love him? You do, don't you?"

Before he realized what he was doing, Oliver smiled broadly, recalling with absolute clarity the flavorful sweetness of Percy's mouth. "Yes," he agreed dreamily, his thoughts turning to Percy's smooth pale body and icy blue eyes. "I love Percy Weasley."

"You cheating slut," Marcus hissed, his angry words cutting deeper that Oliver would have liked to admit. "I bet that's not all you did." Gripping Oliver's wrist tightly, he jerked him to a nearby table and pinned him face down against the cold wooden surface. Oliver frantically fought the rising bile in his throat as he realized Marcus' intent to test the hypothesis. He shifted experimentally in his position, only to be reprimanded with a harsh slap against his ass. "Move again and I'll make sure everyone in the room is watching," Marcus threatened, his fingers fumbling clumsily with Oliver's pants.

Oliver stopped struggling, well aware of Marcus' advantage. Silently, he agreed with Marcus' accusation. He was a dirty sinful slut, sleeping with both Marcus and Harry while thinking of Percy. While he never had a choice about Marcus Flint who was his superior, Oliver had reason to be ashamed about fucking The Boy Who Lived. He told himself that his liaison with Harry was for the cause, part of his function as a Death Eater spy. He knew now that that was not true; it was never true. There had been no need to actually engage in sexual intercourse with him- the Death Eaters would have been sufficiently either way. No, the sex was for him and him alone. Harry must have seen it, known that he was about to crack, and used the distraction of sex to keep him going, keep him in place, keep him sane. Remembering their encounters, he realized now that it had been all about him, Oliver. Harry, the tempting raven-haired seducer from his house Quidditch team, had used his considerable training and experience from the streets to pleasure him, never once mentioning a thing about his own pleasure. Oh Merlin, he thought, abstractly noting Marcus' large fingers probing him, the last great hope of the wizarding world has been whoring himself to me- for what? A broken, perverted spy that fucks him to forget about a former lover? A lost abandoned cause? An apathetic world that doesn't know, doesn't care about what he's done, what he's sacrificed for the good of mankind? The rough fingers pulled out abruptly, leaving him strangely cold. Oliver staggered back, leaned limply against the wall and hastily redid his pants, ignoring Marcus' coarse whispered words and the slow dribble of warm slick oily blood oozing down his legs, drowning in overwhelming sin and guilt. What was he doing, hurting one of the best friends he ever had, the only person who really knew him, fucking him senseless regularly for a bit of forgetfulness?

The throbbing music died abruptly as the strikingly handsome Draco Malfoy majestically entered the room, followed by his escort of two burly Death Eaters, whom Oliver recognized as Malfoy's childhood stooges, Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, and a pale trembling shadow of a man clearly under Imperius, Severus Snape. The host of Death Eaters fell to their knees as one, bowing their heads in respectful silence, forbidden- or perhaps unwilling- to speak. Malfoy's intense stormy gray gaze swept the room confidently, then zeroed in on Oliver, who was now acutely aware of his missing shirt and rumpled appearance. "Wood," the Director said, his soft, calculating voice deceptively powerful. "Come here." Carefully, Oliver rose from his knees and walked to Draco's side, his eyes downcast and his face madly trying to fight the rising blush as he felt Draco's emotionless eyes on his bare chest and bruised nipples. Draco rose a perfectly plucked platinum blond eyebrow. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked, his authoritative voice laced with derision.

Angrily, Oliver rose his eyes, answering the challenge. "No, Lord Malfoy," he said, acutely aware of his missing Scottish accent; yet another victim in this double life he was leading. Internally, he cringed, knowing he would pay for his denial later with Marcus. Still, there was no other way he could have responded. Draco was legendary in his ability to see through any lie, however inconsequential.

Draco smirked and extracted a small Sampoerna carton from his impossibly tight black pants. Oliver stared hungrily at the slightly crushed package, which contained one of the few muggle luxuries, besides drink, of course, that was allowed by the strict Death Eater code. "Having a lover's quarrel with Flint, are you? Pity that. Our Lord is very pleased with your performance. What can I do to make you smile, then?" He opened the fragrant tempting box, and held it towards Oliver.

Quarrel. Smile. Oliver's dark brown eyes blinked rapidly as he tried to hide his shock at the queer, out of place wording. These were the Order's code words this month. This peculiar phrase, then, was one of two things. Either Draco, the master interrogator that he was, had managed to extract the code word from some fellow level 5 agent, or Draco was really spying for the Order of the Phoenix as well. Oliver's mind spun with the possibilities. He dismissed the first option as fairly improbable. The Order, he knew, consisted of five levels. The word smile was known to only to level 4 agents and above and the word quarrel to level 5 agents. Even Draco would have been hard pressed to extract both words from a level 5 agent. Thus, Draco was most likely a spy. Still the question remained- for whom was Draco spying? He could very well turn out to be a double agent. The erstwhile spy hesitated only briefly, then plucked a clove cigarette from the box. Of course. It was a test. Draco wasn't exactly sure of Oliver's identity, so he offered him the message in such a way that he would not be incriminated. If Oliver wasn't the spy, then he would either take the cigarette and smoke it, or refuse. If he was the agent, however, he would be able to later reverse the burning and read the message, which would be secreted within the cigarette. "The floor show," he said, gesturing vaguely at the crowd as he lit up, leaning in to light the thin roll from Draco's proffered lighter, pretending not to notice the vaguely intimate connotations of such an act. "This S&M scene is so cliche. There's only so much one can stand of one's fellow operatives. I could do with some more…stimulating entertainment," he said, breathing in the flavorful smell.

The blond grinned sadistically, dropping his cigarette gracefully to the ground. With slow, deliberate movements, he delicately stepped on it, crushing it with his shiny boot. Raising his wand, he paused, thought a moment, and then tapped Severus with the wand. A puff of green smoke- smoke, Oliver noted, the exact color of Harry's eyes- obscured the prisoner, but quickly dissipated into the air. "Will this make you smile?" Draco asked, turning towards Oliver, his expression every inch that of an evil Death Eater fiend. "I know it's the same old, same old, but really, we can't just ignore this opportunity."

At first, the Griffindor could only gasp and nod dumbly out of reflex of obedience. His former Potions Professor stood naked in the center of the room, over that obscenely happy yellow smiley face, his raw red wrists handcuffed and chained tautly to the ceiling. His legs were held apart by a long metal separator, forcing him to stand unsteadily on his rough and callused toes. It was a nightmarish vision of debauchery from the deepest, most depraved pit in hell and Oliver knew it was his turn to make it worse. A quick look at Draco afforded him no pity, no compromise, only an expectation that he would continue the charade. This awful setting was Draco's contribution. Now, he knew, the rest of the Death Eaters would get their turn with Snape in order of seniority but as the mission leader, he was next. Suddenly, he knew this was divine justice, retribution for his part in causing the deaths of countless innocents. He would be forced to inflict torture on yet another, and the memory would haunt him forever, like all the others. Nervously, he fingered his still-lit cigarette. He knew in his heart that he couldn't do it anymore. He couldn't continue this awful cycle of sexual violence that pervaded, no, dominated life in the Death Eaters. Once again his clouded mind fixed on the cigarette. He had to get out of La Sourire. Having made his decision, he looked back at Draco, with what he hoped was a sadistic smile. "Yes," he hissed, aware of the expectant air of anticipation that had settled over the hushed crowd. He stalked over to Snape, who looked at him with Imperius-blank eyes. Oliver drew his wand and broke the curse, returning Snape regretfully to full awareness.

This was a big mistake. "Oliver Wood," the Potions Professor spat defiantly, somehow managing to look remarkably dignified despite his position. "I suppose it is you who planned the attack on the school. A decidedly Slytherin plan, I should think." He sneered disdainfully and proudly.

Oliver nodded absently, circling Snape slowly, contemplating his next course of action. Suddenly and viciously, he jabbed the lit end of his cigarette against Snape's scarred back, burning a small spot on the small of his back, eliciting a small cry from the prisoner. "Yes," he agreed, struggling to keep his voice neutral, "I was very nearly a Slytherin. The Sorting Hat wanted to put me in there, but I wouldn't let it." For some reason, he spoke the truth, ending his circle next to Draco, whose warm vanilla scent flooded his senses, acting like veritaserum. Had he been drugged somehow tonight? He tried desperately to remember.

Snape's eyes narrowed, still sharp and suspicious despite the obvious pain. Another mark burned into his neck, at his Adam's apple. "But you were sorted into Griffindor. Why? What did it have that Slytherin didn't?" His game became clear to Oliver- he was trying to plant suspicion on someone he believed to be a true Death Eater. Classic divide and conquer. If Oliver wasn't the target, he would have been pleased. Instead, he cast a silencing charm on the prisoner to prevent further damage. The conversation was over. He mindlessly burned another mark onto Snape's chest and prayed that no one would turn on him.

Unfortunately, Flint- he had known he would pay for his denial but not quite this soon and not quite in this way- chose this moment to step forward, his powerful musky scent overwhelming Draco's more subtle and refined one. "Percy Weasley," Marcus answered decisively, pushing Oliver roughly against Snape's trembling body. The cigarette burned another mark into Snape's thigh as Oliver leaned unwillingly against the prisoner for support. "Oliver was in love with that red-headed good for nothing muggle-loving Ministry stooge. When Weasley was sorted into Griffindor, he followed him. They were lovers since third-year up until Percy married Penelope." In a rising panic, Oliver looked at Draco, who returned a blank stare as the crowd began to murmur.

In the back of the room, Ginny suddenly stood and joined Marcus, her sparkling brown eyes flashing with scorn. "Not only did Oliver love Percy then, he still loves him. During the attack, he kissed Percy," she revealed, hissing angrily. "He is a traitor to the cause! Kill the spy!" The cigarette burned, forgotten, against Snape's leg.

At this imprecation, the Death Eaters- already thirsty for Snape's blood- surged forward, echoing her call. "Kill the spy! Kill Oliver Wood!" He closed his eyes in acceptance, awaiting the first stinging blow, but felt none. Instead, he was rewarded with a familiar tug at his navel. A port-key- somehow Draco had managed to turn his cigarette into a port-key. For the first time since Percy had been married, he smiled a real and genuine smile.


End file.
